


Saving the Ones We Love

by draculard



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Bondage, Captivity, F/M, Humor, Oral Sex, Questionable Recruitment Tactics, slight dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 10:24:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18259373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Phasma has been captured by the Resistance. It's up to Finn to prove to her that the Resistance is as good to its people as he says.





	Saving the Ones We Love

What little light there is in Phasma’s cell highlights her white-blonde hair. It’s cut short, close to her head, the perfect complement to her pale blue eyes. Finn remembers the day she was captured, when he removed her helmet while she was tied to a gurney, unconscious after the battle. That first sight of her face had left him breathless.

Now, though, she’s awake, and her eyes are sharp and cool. She tracks his every movement when he enters her cell.

“What will you do with me?” she asks.

What will he do with her?

What a dumb kriffing question.

“I’m here to bring you food and water,” Finn says, which should be obvious, since he’s carrying a tray laden with kodari-rice and spiced Mynock wing. He eyes Phasma as he sets the tray down to pour her a glass of water. “Are you thirsty?” he says.

She gives the glass a furious look, like she has some sort of vendetta against it. “Poison?” she asks.

“Uh, no,” says Finn. He sips from the glass, just to get it out of the way, because he’s sure she’ll refuse to try it until he does. Predictably, when he holds the glass to her lips, she acts like it isn’t there. No doubt she’s waiting — watching him for signs of impending death.

With a sigh, he sets the glass back down on the tray. He pulls up a chair, sitting backwards on it across from Phasma. Her eyes narrow, and he’s willing to bet it’s because she’s tied to her own chair and can’t assume a cool sitting position like he can. Back in the First Order, Phasma always sat on her chairs backward in the Mess Hall.

Thinking back on it all makes Finn’s heart ache with a mix of nostalgia for the only childhood he’s ever known and resentment for all he went through. Emotion clogs his throat and he reaches forward without thinking, resting his hand on top of Phasma’s. She tenses, veins standing out around her eyes. Clearly, she wishes she could slap Finn’s hand away.

“Listen,” Finn says. He’s almost embarrassed by how gentle his voice is. “The Resistance isn’t like the First Order was. When I first came here, I was ready to run at the slightest provocation.”

Phasma’s eyes are trained on him, boring a hole straight through his head. She doesn’t look impressed.

“The Resistance is … is…” Finn struggles for words. “It’s full of kind, gentle people. It really is. Nobody here will mistreat you. We’re not interested in torture, or — or —”

Phasma rolls her eyes before settling her glare back on Finn with hardly a change in her expression. Finn feels his face heat up a little.

“ _Kind_ ,” Phasma mutters, her voice scathing. She flexes her biceps so that the ropes dig into her muscles, showcasing how thoroughly she’s tied to her chair. The sight of it makes Finn’s mouth go dry. “There are no kind and gentle armies,” Phasma says.

“But there are kind and gentle _people_ ,” Finn argues. Phasma scoffs.

“And I suppose you’re one of them?” she says. Before Finn can answer, she’s shaking her head, jaw tight. “What you are is a coward,” she says. “Unable to face battle after _nineteen_ years of training…”

She trails off, too incensed to go on. Finn bites his lip and eyes her bonds. Would it be possible to loosen them a little, to make a positive gesture, to prove how kind the Resistance is?

No. She’d probably just break his neck and escape the moment he gave her the slightest bit of wiggle room. Finn’s gaze runs down her body, to where her ankles are strapped firmly to opposite legs of the chair. Suddenly, an idea pops into his head — something he can do without untying Phasma, without giving her the slightest opportunity to retaliate.

“Hold this,” Finn says abruptly. He puts the glass of water between Phasma’s legs, and she instinctively tries to bring her knees together to hold it in place. The ropes prevent her from moving at all, just as Finn thought they would. He takes the glass of water away, unable to prevent himself from smiling. When he looks back at Phasma, she sees the incessant curve of his lips and realization sparks in her eyes.

“Anyone in the First Order ever do _this_ for you?” Finn asks, and he kneels between her legs, confident now that she won’t use her powerful thighs to crush his head into pieces. Phasma jerks back in her chair when Finn’s fingers find the laces at the front of her trousers. He undoes them deftly, too excited to take his time and tease her.

It’s a struggle to get her trousers down. Phasma fights against him as well as she can, pressing herself hard against the seat of the chair. She refuses to lift her hips for Finn, so in the end, he has to peel her trousers down her legs with all his might, nearly tearing them in the process.

She isn’t wearing underwear. Finn stares at the short, blonde curls between her legs, transfixed by the sight of them. When Phasma speaks, her voice is unnaturally husky.

“What are you doing?” she asks. Her thighs are tense, trembling under Finn’s hands.

Finn doesn’t answer. He leans forward, inhaling Phasma’s scent. He feels her freeze up, but she doesn’t have time to react before he presses his tongue against her clit.

“Oh,” Phasma breathes, going still.

Oh, indeed. She tastes bitter and delicious all at once; it’s a taste Finn quickly acclimates to, and once he’s acclimated to it, he starts to crave it. He laps at Phasma, barely conscious of the way she’s melted beneath him, her breath coming fast. His tongue is warm and wet against her, the sensation surely overwhelming her, overriding all her instincts of self-preservation.

She makes no effort to fight him. Instead, she angles her hips up, offering him access to her, inviting him in. Finn takes the plunge without hesitation. His nose is rubbing against her clit, his tongue dipping into her hole.

“You taste so sweet,” he says when he comes up for air. Phasma stares back at him, speechless, her cheeks flushed. There’s a sharpness to her eyes that reminds him of sparring matches, her limbs slamming against his, her weight pinning him down. Suddenly, Finn is so hard he fears he might burst out of his pants, but he ignores his own needs entirely.

He buries his face between Phasma’s legs and makes her cum. He can hear her gasping for breath, her back arching as tension surges throughout her body, bringing with it the white-hot light of orgasm. He feels her muscles spasming and he keeps at it, lavishing attention on her clit, making her cum again and again.

When he finally stops, Phasma is entirely boneless, her head lolling back against the chair. She stares at the ceiling, breathing shallowly, shaking just a little bit as Finn pulls her away. He licks his lips, savoring the taste of her inside his mouth.

He sinks into his own chair without pulling Phasma’s trousers back up. He drinks the sight of her in, her hair in disarray, her pants around her ankles, her skin flushed. With her legs tied firmly to the chair, her cunt is on display, still dripping wet from Finn’s ministrations.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“So,” he says, “purely in terms of orgasms here, who’s been better to you? The First Order or the Resistance?”

Phasma finally looks at him, just to nail him with a steely glare. “You ingested the poison from the glass,” she says flatly. “Then you applied it internally with your tongue, ensuring I would die a slow painful death. I expect you’ll take the antidote yourself any minute now.”

“Oh, for kriff’s sake,” Finn says.


End file.
